All day the Shep­herd sought the sheep,
And called them home to rest;
His pierc­èd head now pil­lowed lies
On earth’s green, gen­tle breast.

At least, she loved Him as her child,
And did her mak­er hail;
For in His hour of ang­uished pain
Her ve­ry sun grew pale.

He trod her thor­ni­est, drea­ry ways,
With foot­prints traced in blood;
He knew the guer­don wait­ing Him—
The nails and cross of wood!

To see God thus, the ho­ly ones
In low­ly rev­er­ence bow;
But His own breth­ren mark­èd not
The glo­ry round His brow.

He bears long years of toil and pain,
And pays for them the price;
He pours at last His life blood out
To crown the sac­ri­fice.

Now for a space the earth He made
Holds Him in her em­brace;
While soft white wings of an­gels round
Guard well the ho­ly place.

Soon will He wak­en. Night speeds fast,
The gold­en day is near;
The east­ern sky is glow­ing now
And signs of dawn ap­pear!

A ray of Hea­ven’s glo­ry bright
Pierces death’s dark, an­cient pri­son;
The an­gels fold their pin­ions now
And whis­per, He is ris’n.